


UnderBorne

by avismari



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Bloodborne crossover, Death, Gore, Undertale AU, Violence, and those that are aren't gonna appear for a while, bloodborne au, frequent character death, if you've played Bloodborne you know it's hard af, like Frisk dies a lot, not all characters are tagged, undertale characters are replacing some bloodborne characters, undertale crossover, will add tags as the story goes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avismari/pseuds/avismari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has returned; that vile sickness that churns within the brains of men and womenfolk, turning them into half-witted beasts that wander aimlessly into an endless night. Terrible, disgusting creatures lurk within the shadows and flecks of moonlight, yearning to taste blood once more. Humans and monsters have staved off a Hunt for far too long. Time has decided that peace has reigned enough. This Hunt will be a long one, and it has been chose by the Great Ones that a child will lift humanity and monster kind into its next life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	UnderBorne

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags carefully for triggers! Triggers will be added as they appear in the story. This story will feature graphic displays of violence and gore. If that's not your style, then please don't read this story. If you have any questions you want answered with relative quickness, please visit this fic's tumblr page at underborne.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you to lady-maria-trash, forgetfulgoldfish, and catburd for beta reading! You can all find them on tumblr through their urls I listed.
> 
> Enjoy!

They were aching; wracked with a terrible illness that slow eats away at one’s mind and soul, leaving them near bedridden as their parents coughed and moaned, thrashing wildly in a poor attempt to seek comfort. The child’s parents would die soon; within the next moon, the parents’ suffering would cease, and then– oh, it could only happen soon after, couldn’t it? –they would be next. They would be next to thrash about and cry, moaning into the night, whimpering for their parents to come save them from this damnable illness as they scratched and tore away at their face, hoping to focus their pain on something more mundane. But no, oh no, this little child would not sit around and wait for death as many before them had. Oh, they just could _not_! With a shaky heave, the sickly child swung their feet over the side of the tattered thing that barely deserved to be called a mattress. They gazed despairingly at their writhing parents through mussed brown locks. The sunlight trickling through the cracked window above the hearth illuminated the hollowed out cheekbones, pale yellow blotches, and dirt smattering the parents' faces. The child swallowed thickly, a violent cough racking their form before turning toward the oak door that was littered with holes and spiders. A bed sheet would have made a more efficient barrier.

There was a town called Yharnam, about a four day trip by carriage (though the carriages stopped running once the city had fallen into poverty), that practiced the dark art of blood ministration. For centuries it has been rumored that any illness could be cured with what the Yharnamites called “blood healing.” The current town that the sick child resided in has no efficient medical practice, thus turning their condition into a cruel game of time for them; hoping and waiting, to see if life would turn them all over to death in a gradual and painful decent into the afterlife, or if life would have some inkling of mercy and allow them the grace of resuming their bland and apathetic daily routine. If there was any hope in surviving, they would have to begin walking now in order to have even the slightest of chances of making it, though there was a high probability that they would die during their mission.

This child would stand for it no longer.

With determination pumping through their thin veins at the intention of travelling to Yharnam, they took one last look back at their parents, a forlorn smile cast towards the pair, before opening the beaten door and venturing onto the deserted streets in hopes of finding a way to the far away town.

The parents’ voices were too raspy to form coherent sentences, quickly morphing into coughs and choking spells the moment their throats were pushed beyond breathing. Where was their baby going? Why were they even heading out? Hadn’t they all agreed to stay with each other as the last remaining few of this barren town? Oh, how the parents longed to call for their baby to turn back, to sit with them on the dusty floor as they flitted in and out of consciousness.

Soon enough, their coughing faded into nothing as they both stared at the battered door. They continued to stare, and stare, and stare, even as the sickly gleam in their eyes passed into nothing.

**********

They were dehydrated, starved, and close to passing out, but as fate would have it, the child had found success. Five hours into their trek, they came upon a dark carriage that was awaiting them, door already open, as they climbed into the rickety contraption. No one sat inside besides them, they didn’t question its appearance, nor did they honestly care. As they settled inside, a feeling of tranquility washed over them, believing that this carriage, with its old and smelly horses, worn leather and wood seats that creaked with every bump, and curtained windows, would carry them safely to their destination. They were on the right path. The fate of their parents was dependent on them! If anything, this could only be perceived as a good omen. With shaky breath and a smile, the child leaned back in their seat, patting their hands lightly on their legs as they imagined themselves riding back into town a hero, with a cure for this dreadful illness in hand.

As time passed, exhaustion began take over their consciousness. Soon enough, as they were slumped over in the seat of the carriage after the need for rest overcame them, the distant, sonorous chime of a cathedral bell awoke them. They scrambled to look out the window at their foreign surroundings.

No longer did crumbling gray buildings and shattered windows blind them in every direction. Now, thin alleyways, darkened by the proximity of how close the buildings were together, wide cobblestone streets, and tall almost pike-like points topped nearly every bleak, towering structure. Statues of weeping or praying maidens, some clutching wailing children to their stony bosoms, some solid, and other cracking and crumbled lay strewn throughout the city. The streets were bare of life. Broken carriages, and metal and wooden coffins cluttered the stone as far as the eye could see. Had anyone ever been here? Had the same illness that infected the child and their parents taken this town as well? Was the illness so terrible that the art of blood healing could not save the citizens? Doubt festered in their mind as they slouched down in their seat, gaze on the floor of the carriage, their hands clasped in their lap and their bottom lip sticking out in a pout. But… why would a carriage even take them here if there was absolutely nothing left? Surely there had to be have been some reason, and the child was going to find it out. They were certain of it.

Though doubt still flickered through their thoughts, the little one sniffled as they moved to look out the window again, and they regretted their choice. Next to a charred crucifix lay two skeletons; their bones rotted from exposure to the elements, and around their bodies was thick piles of white dust. Several more piles of dust and bones lay scattered throughout the city as the carriage moved down a sloping path. The child shuddered with unease.

After rolling through a pair of large, iron gates, and down a narrow cobblestone path to the left, with jarring snorts from the horses, the carriage stopped. To the left of the carriage was another iron gate, bordered by brick walls and a brick arch over top of the dull bars. Through this gate was a small, open area made up of cobblestone and dirt, with several gravestones sitting next to dying flora and petrified trees dotting the edges of the circular area. Ahead was a smaller, locked gate. Off towards the right was a building made up of gray and tan bricks with four thick pillars supporting the archway. Two towering segments rear of the building watched over the city. The little child glanced back at the carriage, yet it was gone. Sighing, they looked back toward the building and approached the door. No turning back now.

A mixture of determination and trepidation filled the child’s chest as they pulled the door open, moved inside and shut the door with a gentle click.

 ******

The room was dim and warm, lit by gothic style lamps that sparsely dotted the cracking walls that gave support for the building underneath the peeling wallpaper. Two windows that stretched from floor to ceiling were blocked by faded green curtains. Shelves and work benches lined the walls nearly everywhere. Some were bare, others held various glass bottles. Areas of the floor all throughout the place were either broken or ripped up, exposing ventilation that lay beneath the wood. Past the foyer lay a significantly brighter room with four cold, and oddly pristine, metal examination tables that were partnered with looming IV poles that held two glass cylinders filled with a deep, almost black, crimson. Buckets filled with surgical instruments that were crusted with blood hung from the underside of an end of each table. Stray chains and ropes were strewn about the room, some pristine, others soaked in deep red liquid. It seems they were in a clinic of sorts.

Above the child hung a massive ornate chandelier, which was currently providing the most light for this facility, suspended on a thick, copper chain from a vaulted ceiling. Two thick, wooden dividers separated this area of the room from the back, and thick curtains were pulled to the side, allowing access between the wide middle of the dividers. Past the first examination area was a second one, and the decor was the same, save for a smaller, less decorative chandelier hung from the ceiling this time. Towards the far left rear corner of the room were two double doors. With nothing else left to see, the child pulled the doors back, and ventured forth.

They stopped before a flight of stairs that lead to another set of double doors with a broken window. High on the threshold above the little one was a window that illuminated the staircase with a beautiful orange glow. Dust danced in the clinic’s stale air within the rays of light.

Surely this place was where the little child would find a cure, oh, it must be! Such light would not illuminate the darkness that has shrouded this child, nor would it illuminate a place such as this, hidden away in desolate town, if this was not where they were meant to be!

Thus, it was decided.

With a renewed sense of determination flowing through their sickly heart, the child plodded up the stairs, nearly skipping in time with the rhythm of the dancing dust above their head.

A tiny knuckle rose to rap upon the wooden door. No response. The knuckle rapped a little louder as a coughing fit quickly took over their form.

The muffled sounds of squeaking wheels answered the child’s little rasps and raps, and soon enough the door creaked and popped open. Across the doorsill was an elderly man, slightly hunched over in a wheelchair, with a tattered cloak draped over his hunched shoulders secured by a thick gold chain, a large top hat kept the wiry stands of his hair in place over his eyes, a thick grey beard that stopped at his collar tickled his chin, and a bushy mustache irritated his upper lip.

It was a few seconds before the child could get their throat to work properly again, and when they did, another coughing spell took them.

Soundlessly, save for the squeaking of the chair’s wheels, the man rolled back and gestured for the little one to enter. The child did so, grateful for the fact that someone had been found, and that this silent savior behind the glowing door would aid in providing a cure.

This room was the smallest they had yet seen since coming to this here clinic. Two tables were in this thin room, and only a shelf and a book case lined two walls. A lone metal chair sat next to the bookshelf. Everything seemed the same as the rest of the building.

Closing the door with a soft click, the old man wheeled towards the child, a deep frown creasing the corners of his mouth.

“What brings you all the way out to Yharnam, little one?” the man asked, voice low and scratchy.

The child mumbled in reply. Something about a terrible sickness.

The old Blood Minister motioned with a wrinkled, bony hand for the child to climb upon the silver examination table. The table was strangely warm, the child pondered, as the lay back; their eyes gazing directly at the old man and wide with wonderment. This man had no eyes. Simply hollowed, red and bumpy holes where his eyes should be. Was he falling to the illness as well?

“A sickness. As I’m sure you know, the sickness you have, its only cure lies within this town,” the old man said, voice somber. “Paleblood. Oh, yes… Paleblood… A special type of blood discovered by the Church long ago, distributed to sickly patients such as yourself through blood ministration.” The man rolled towards the child, the wheels of his chair protesting with nearly each turn. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of blood ministration. You need only to unravel its mystery. But where’s an outsider like yourself to begin?” he gestured vaguely to the room about them. A sense of perturbation sank into the child’s mind for a moment. Something was not right, but they couldn’t give up now! Not when they were this close to receiving a cure! With a huff that could easily be mistaken for a dejected sigh, a sense of tenacity replaced that pesky sensation of anxiety.

The Blood Minister chuckled at the child’s huff. “Easy, with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own… But first, you’ll need a contract,” he said as he produce a quill, and a long, creased and torn piece of parchment, with fading ebony words that curled and twisted to form the script that would seal their fate. No matter, the child could not read well anyhow. With the quill in hand, the child scratched ‘Frisk’ onto the parchment. Pleased, the Blood Minister took up the paper and quill, setting them aside on the chair near the opposite wall.

“Good. All signed and sealed.” The Blood Minister moved to a large, curved shelf filled with various sized glass bottles, procuring two that were tinted a deep mahogany wine color. Moving back towards them, Frisk stared with wide eyes as the man placed the two bottles upside-down in the IV pole next to them. A needle connected to the bottles through a hollow line, and Frisk flinched when they noticed the needle pointing at their arm.

“Now, let’s begin the transfusion.”

Frisk squirmed in discomfort when they felt hot hands grip their arm, and when the needle slid under their skin. Thick, viscous liquid began to seep down the line, and into their arm. There was a warmth spreading through their veins, slowly, walking through their body, and making them feel warm; a touch too warm. It was not pleasant, but it wasn’t unpleasant either. Their temperature began to shift from warm to hot, and sweat began to gather on their forehead. Darkness edged the corners of their eyes, and they looked to the old man that sat hunched over in his wheel chair for a sign that this was normal, that this was supposed to happen; concern riddled their face.

The darkness became more insistent, and before Frisk fell into unconsciousness, the Blood Minister spoke, “Oh, don’t you worry. Whatever happens… You may think it all a mere bad dream.”

 ******

Frisk wanted to cry. It felt like their veins were boiling, their body throbbed acutely with pain; and their head, oh, their head was pounding as if some brute was kicking them about by the skull! Frisk would be lying to themselves if they said that this blood transfusion was helping them. They felt better before this all happened. Perhaps, this was a side effect, and it would all wear off soon enough. Perhaps this is a feverish nightmare.

Yes, a feverish nightmare. That is what this was. Just as the Blood Minister said.

A nauseating gurgle sounded to Frisk’s left. Their eyes snapped open, vision hazy, as their head slowly turned towards the noise. A pool of bright red began to seep through from the broken floor boards until a large, bubbling puddle festered in the room. Frisk’s vision began to slowly clear just as a lycanthrope with striking thin red fur, eyes that resembled the sun, and rotting teeth emerged from the puddle. The beast extended a paw towards Frisk’s face, the tip of a claw barely brushing under their chin. Frisk wanted to cry out, to flee, but was frozen to the table; their limbs like sacks of brick.

Suddenly, the paw reeled back, and then beast was in flames! It growled and roared as its skin and hair sizzled and popped; its form melting into the red goop below it.

They were afraid. Oh, so afraid. But this is just a nightmare, yes? It’ll end come morning. Their throat began to swell with a silent sob until they felt pressure on their knee. Frisk quickly snapped their head forward towards their leg. At Frisk’s knee was a little white paw, gentle and innocent. Attached to the paw was a white creature with large round ears as well as pointed cat ears atop its head, a black mane, and a cat like face. It was wearing a green and yellow striped shirt. A soft “hOi, i’m temmie!” came from its maw, and soon a second appeared near their other leg, babbling a similar saying. A third, fourth, and fifth followed after, and soon enough more crowded around the poor child. The cries of the creatures got louder as Frisk’s head began to swim; their ears began to ring as their vision beginning to darken again. They laid their head back against the table, and allowed the darkness to swallow their conscience.

A sweet, melodious voice, wavered through their mind, whispering, “Ah, little ones. You have found yourself a Hunter.”

 ******

It was quiet. The room was illuminated by dusk light streaming through the upper windows, casting shadows against the walls. It was so peaceful. Frisk awoke with a groggy head as their small fists rubbed sleep from their eyes. Despite the nightmare, they surprisingly felt well. Far better than they had before coming here anyhow. Resting their arms at their sides, Frisk stared at the ceiling for a few moments as they tried to recall what happened the previous night.

They traveled to Yharnam by carriage, got brought to a clinic, met a Blood Minister that could help them find a cure, received the medicine themselves, and passed out. Frisk let out a yawn as they sat up, swinging their legs over the side of the now frigid examination table. A bandage sullied with blood was coiled tightly around their left arm.

The room looked the same as it did before: broken floor boards, rusted vents that shown through the splintering wood, peeling paint, dusty shelves, and the various assortment of medical items littered the room. The contract that Frisk signed still sat in the chair near the opposite wall. All Frisk had to do now was find where that old minister had gone and acquire some of that medicine for his family, or better yet, his whole town! Oh, but look closer, young one, something is different about the parchment! It looked as if it had glint to it, and surely, it caught their eye. Trotting over to it, the child picked up the vellum, and squinted as they tried to mouth the words scrawled on the yellowing paper:

_Seek Paleblood to Transcend the Hunt._

The Hunt? Frisk was baffled, to say the least, but it would seem they would still have to go out and actively search for this Paleblood cure the man spoke about. Did the crippled man not have enough here in this clinic? Apparently not if he wanted Frisk to go out and get more. Setting the paper down, Frisk decided that they would go out and find more. But first, they must ask the minister where to search.

Frisk opened the double doors and jogged down the stairs in search of the man, filled with determination.

The feeling of determination that pumped in their heart quickly thickened into a lump of unease in their throat. The squelching sounds of something being torn and devoured tickled their ears from the other side of the room, and the soft growls sent a shiver through their bones. Frisk’s vision was obscured by one of the large, thick dividers that sectioned off the largest room of the clinic. Something was eating, rather messily. Could the Blood Minister be having supper? He must be rather ravenous if he is. Had the poor man starved himself to treat me, Frisk assumed. Feeling guilty at the thought, Frisk began to move towards the opening between the two dividers to apologize to the old man, and thank him as well.

…

That was _not_ the Blood Minister, but that **was** something devouring a corpse upon the ground. Blood stained the flood boards, and the sick, metallic scent of blood filled their nostrils. Frisk fought the urge to scream, their hands coming up to cover their gaping mouth. Eyes wide with terror, they looked on, paralyzed, as the beast– similar to the lycanthrope from the nightmare, but now with dark gray fur –tore flesh and organs alike from the body below it. Its form was turned slightly away from the child, which was a blessing. It hadn’t noticed them, and hopefully it never would; not with the stench of death permeating the stale air.

Minutes crawled by like hours before Frisk realized that the only two living creatures within the room would have to move eventually; better they to move first than the beast, lest they wish to become its next meal. Quietly inching backwards as to not draw attention, Frisk moved towards the room they awoke from. They did not turn their back on the horrid scene until they nearly stumbled backwards on the stairs. They gasped and flailed about as they tried to quickly steady themselves; a tiny foot stomped on the step behind them to regain balance. The low growls and squelching sounds from the other side of the divider ceased. They had been heard.

The thought of being quiet vanished from their mind as the bolted up the stairs, slid into the room (knocking a few glass bottles in the process), and ducking behind the wall, their back pressed tightly against it.

Frisk waited for a sign that the beast had followed them: the scrape of crooked claws against the grains of the rotten floor, the thumping of malformed paws against the find wooden stairs, or the tickle of hot, fetid breath upon their paling cheek as blood dribbled onto their shirt.

But nothing came.

No thumping. No scraping. No breathing.

Frisk released the breath they had been holding, and placed a hand over their chest. Relief was visible on the gentle face that lay hidden beneath messy bangs of dark auburn. Their eyes scanned the room for any sort of alternate exit. The windows were far too high, and inaccessible, even if they tried climbing the shelves.

Ah, ha! There, in the far corner of the room sat a door, shadowed by the shelves around it. Frisk quickly padded over to it, and, wrapping their fingers around the cool handle, they gave the knob a twist.

They gave it another twist.

And another.

And another.

The door was locked.

Anxiety raced through their veins as they jiggled the handle; desperation evident on their face. Frisk’s throat dropped to their stomach when they realized the handle lacked a keyhole, yet the door was locked! They couldn’t possibly go back the other way, they wouldn’t! There was no way past that foul creature, Frisk was sure of it. The idea of calling for help crossed their mind, but quickly decided against it. They didn’t want the creature to hear them. Perhaps, if it was so engrossed with its meal, they could sneak past the beast.

There was only one way to find out.

They were staring at the lycanthrope again, albeit still with fear in their eyes, they also showed calculation as they scanned the perimeter of the other side of the room in search of the best sneaking path. The child opted for the right wall, as the beast’s back would be facing them. With careful steps Frisk moved along the right wall, paused every now and then when a groan would emit from the floor, keeping their eyes locked onto the beast. Frisk stopped moving when they neared a shelf that sat in the corner of the room. They would have to be careful moving around it. Bottles sat on the ground, threatening to be stepped on or kicked. Holding their breath, Frisk moved to step around the bottles. Their foot hadn’t even touched the ground when the beast snorted and lifted its head.

Its ears twitched back as it held its nose pointedly in the air. Entrails stuck to its maw, the blood glistening in the dusk light. Frisk stiffened when the beast turned its head, a bright white eyes baring down upon the petrified child. The beast released a harsh growl as it turned towards Frisk; the corners of its ugly maw, displaying two rows of dagger-like teeth, creased in a vicious snarl, and its claws digging into the blood soaked floor boards. Its back was hunched as it moved from side to side about to pounce.

Frisk was cornered. Examination tables blocked them on their left, and a shelf blocked them on their right. There was no way out of this that they could see. Frisk gulped as hot tears blurred their vision. Too quick for them to comprehend, the beast lunged at the child with its claws extended towards their face. Frisk wailed as they felt the claws sink into and tear at their face. Three deep gashed trailed from their scalp to their chin, one cutting through their eye, and each oozing blood. The gashed burned horribly. Their lip trembled in terror, and they whined when they tasted copper on their tongue.

Noticing its prey was incapacitated, the beast pushed back on its haunches in preparation to strike again. Through weeping eye, Frisk saw a small opening between a table and the beast. With a burst of courage, Frisk dove past the creature as it swung forward. Landing on all fours, Frisk struggled to rise as they crawled through shredded organs and flesh to a more open area of the room, slipping in their fanatical search for purchase. The beast was swift to turn towards the poor child, growling in delight at their attempt to flee. With their back turned to the beast, Frisk began to hastily crawl towards the exit; their hiccupping sobs made their movements falter.

The beast wasted no time in closing the kill. It sprung up, and then forward, jaw open as it prepared to sink its teeth into Frisk’s neck.

A gargled scream tore through the air, unheard to all but the beast and Frisk, as teeth punctured the child’s throat; dark crimson spilled from their neck and lips as the choked on their life force as they tried to scream. The child’s vision began to grow dark at an alarming rate, and their body grew numb.

Within minutes, their body fell limp. The phantom feeling of their neck being lacerated stayed in their mind before, finally, the peaceful arms of death carried them to another realm.

 

 

 

 


End file.
